A Study in Clay
by Nikolai-Tesla
Summary: Before Sherlock Holmes had even heard of John Watson, he was already on his way to becoming the world's greatest  and only  consulting detective. This case, one of his earliest, records the details of his encounters with Dan Leno and the Limehouse Golem.


A Study in Clay

It was a cold night in London. Those who had the misfortune of having to venture out-of-doors would remember the exceptional bite of the thick tapestry of fog that hung in the air. Only two creatures seemed entirely unconcerned about the chill, the first of which was a grizzled old man slouched uncomfortably against a cold stone wall uncomfortably close to the looming figure of St. Anne's. The pale lamplight threw shadows across his face, playing up the man's sharp cheekbones and hooked nose.

It was obvious, even with the sloppy consideration of an untrained eye, that the man was thus unconcerned by virtue of the fact that that he had lived out-of-doors for quite some time. His clothes were of good quality but were ratty and torn and much too large for his thin frame, as if he had inherited- or perhaps stolen- them from someone rather well-off. His face was rugged and weathered, his eyes sharp and bright, a clear sign that he lived off of his wits. A grubby upturned hat containing a few meagre coins lay on the sidewalk in front of him.

The man didn't even flinch when he heard the faint click of a woman's shoes on the cobblestones, muffled by the thick fog. The woman, small and slight, flounced down the street, completely disregarding the frigid night air.

'Spare some change?' the man asked in a wheezing, halting voice as the woman made as if to walk past him. She stopped and put a hand into her floral handbag, withdrawing a few coins.

'I doubt I will much miss these,' she said, her voice ringing melodically in the crisp air as she reached into the hat to deposit the coins.

'Bless you,' the man breathed. 'Your kindness will be repaid,' he added cryptically.

The woman smiled indulgently before raising a hand in farewell and continuing on her way.

Once she had rounded the corner and proceeded halfway down the street she stopped short and looked around her, as if to ensure she was not being followed. When she seemed satisfied that no one was around, she opened her hand which had been curled into a fist. There, in her palm, was a tiny folded slip of paper. She unfolded it without hesitation.

On it in a neat measured script were the words '_Tomorrow morning. 10.00. 19 Montague Street_'.

The woman slipped the note into her handbag, smiling to herself. Having done so, she took off down the street at a brisk clip until she had, once more, disappeared into the fog.

It was one minute to ten the following morning when a man ascended the stone steps out of number 19 Montague Street. He was a remarkable man, if only for the fact that he appeared entirely unremarkable. His clothes were neat, if a little ordinary, and his face was shadowed by the brim of his hat. He was a diminutive man, almost as if his body had somehow compacted itself in compensation for housing a huge personality.

The man raised a hand to knock on the door, but before his knuckles had touched the wood, the door swung open.

'Ah. Mr Leno. Right on time, I see.'

The man on the doorstep, for he was indeed Dan Leno, lowered his hand quickly, feeling foolish. He opened his mouth to speak but was quickly ushered inside before he was even able to get a good look at the man who had opened the door.

'Come inside, Mr Leno,' the man said as he nearly pulled Leno in the flat. 'You never know who is watching in London. I'm a private man; I like to keep my business to myself.'

He led Leno into a small parlour room near the foyer, expertly avoiding piles of clutter and heaps of books as he went. Leno, who was not so used to this peculiar way of living, had a bit more difficulty, once very nearly landing on his face.

'Do excuse the mess,' the man called over his shoulder as he glided across the floor. 'I really must find a flat with a proper housekeeper.'

He removed what appeared to be a human skull from an armchair in the room and gestured to Leno to sit down before settling himself in a chair opposite. It was then that Dan Leno got his first good look at Sherlock Holmes, Amateur Detective.

Holmes was very lean and thin, his face all angles, nose and cheekbones contrasting sharply with full lips. He looked almost too tall for his chair but he tucked his long, bony legs under the seat with the ease of one who has had much experience with cramped seating arrangements. He waited until Leno was seated and spread his hands magnanimously, indicating that he should make himself at home.

'Let me be frank with you, Mr Leno,' Holmes said. 'It isn't often that I ask people to come here. Usually _they_ find _me_, not the other way round. But I cannot deny that you have an extremely unique set of skills that could be of much use to me.'

Leno opened his mouth to speak but stopped, eying Holmes warily. It was the first time since arriving at Montague Street that Holmes had given him a chance to speak. 'Yes, Mr Holmes. The letter I received from you a few days ago said as much. I have to wonder, though, to which skills you are referring.'

Holmes smiled conspiratorially. 'I am referring, of course, to both your status in the community and the wealth of characters you play. You proved to me last night in Limehouse that you are quite adept at the art of disguise. If I were not so familiar with your work, I would have been sure you were a woman. With your combination of célébrité and talent, you are privy to all sorts of valuable information.'

Leno raised an eyebrow. 'Information concerning…'

'Mr Leno,' Holmes said quietly, leaning forward. 'I am sure it has not escaped your attention that London is currently plagued by a mysterious killer. And I have reason to believe that this matter will be of particular interest to you.'

After a few seconds of Leno's quizzical silence, Holmes continued. 'Allow me to explain, Mr Leno. It seems that I have become sort of a… consulting detective. People come to me with particularly interesting cases and I solve them. Murders- these recent ones in particular- are the most compelling. Particularly because I can assure you that the police will be of no use in this investigation; they see only what they want to see.'

'And you do not?'

'No, Mr Leno. I most certainly do not.'

Leno smiled. He liked this Holmes fellow. He certainly had a flair for the dramatic, and Leno could completely respect that.

'Now, to get down to business,' Holmes continued briskly. 'I have a client coming in exactly three minutes. Everything will become clear then. I need you to go into that room there,' -he pointed at a door in the far corner of the room- 'and close the door nearly all the way. It is imperative that you do exactly what I tell you. Do not let my client know you are listening, no matter what may happen.'

Leno looked strangely at Holmes but nodded and stood up, adjusting his suit jacket. 'I am an actor, Mr Holmes. I was born to follow directions.' He made his way to the room, which was apparently little more than a cluttered closet, and made to shut the door most of the way. He ensured that a crack of about an inch remained so that he could hear everything that transpired.

Exactly as Holmes had predicted, three minutes passed before there was a knock at the door; Holmes was already waiting in the foyer, as he had been when he had met Leno. Leno could hear the faint sounds of Holmes welcoming his client before ushering him into the parlour.

Once they were seated- Holmes had taken the chair so that Leno could see the client's face- they began to talk. Leno was surprised to see that the client was in fact John Cree, a man he had known for years. He knew Cree's wife Elizabeth better than he knew himself, though that was not really saying much.

'Well then, Mr Cree,' Holmes was saying, though Leno got the distinct impression that he already knew everything that the other man would say. 'Why are you in need of a private detective?'

Cree shifted awkwardly in his seat. He was a soft-spoken man at the best of times, but with Sherlock Holmes staring at him, the pressure was immense.

'It is about my wife Elizabeth,' Cree said hoarsely. 'I think she might be having an affair.'

Holmes rolled his eyes. 'An affair, Mr Cree? Surely you can do better than that.'

Holmes's interjection seemed to make Cree even more uncomfortable. He tugged at his shirt collar with a finger. 'She has been acting distant and a little suspicious. She will disappear for hours on end with no excuse.'

Holmes was nodding while Cree spoke, urging him on. He put his elbows on the arms of his chair and leaned back, the tips of his long fingers steepled together. 'Tell me, Mr Cree, is your wife a religious woman?'

'Oh no, Mr Holmes. Her mother was, though. Very religious. Elizabeth hated her. She was a horrible woman. Now she's a Catholic, but she only converted because we were getting married.'

'Ah, of course.' Holmes nodded sagely. 'She is very sensitive about her past, then? And her religion?' He didn't wait for Cree to answer. 'Interesting.'

After a moment of thought, Holmes clapped his hands together with finality. 'Thank you, Mr Cree. That will be all.'

Cree looked surprised. 'Are you sure you do not need anything else?'

'I have all the information I need. Your situation has been of particular interest to me for quite some time. Now if you will excuse me,' he said, standing up, 'I have some important business to attend to concerning your case.' He gestured toward the door, smiling slightly.

Leno watched Holmes follow Cree out of the room and listened carefully until he was sure the front door had closed. Once he had deemed it safe, he pushed open the door to his hiding place. When Holmes re-entered the parlour, Leno was already seated in one of the armchairs, his brow furrowed.

'Mr Holmes,' he said slowly. 'I _know_ Elizabeth Cree. Very well. It seems unlikely that she would be having an affair.'

'You are quite right.' Holmes shook his head. 'Elizabeth Cree is _not_ having an affair. That is where you come in, Mr Leno.'

Leno was taken aback and blinked rapidly. 'You already know she is innocent? Why do you need me? And why did you take the case?'

'I did not say she was innocent,' Holmes said, holding up a finger. 'Only that there is no affair.' He returned to his armchair and reseated himself, perching like an overgrown hawk. 'I have been investigating these matters on my own for quite some time. And I will need you soon, Mr Leno, I am sure of it. We already know the principal actors and the supporting cast in this little drama; it is only a matter of time before the next scene is played out.'

Despite Leno's confusion, he allowed himself a smile at Holmes's words. It certainly would be interesting working with the man, even if he _was_ rather cryptic.

He started to show himself out when it was clear that Holmes would be deep in thought for quite some time. As he made to leave, Holmes called out to him.

'Oh. Mr Leno.' When he heard his name, the man halted his departure and turned back to face Holmes. 'The next time we meet, do try not to fit in quite so well. People will start to think that you are trying too hard to be ordinary. We both know that is far from the truth.' He fluttered a hand in dismissal, returning to his thoughts as Leno left, blinking bemusedly.

It was a few days before Holmes and Leno would meet again, this time under considerably more unpleasant circumstances.

Sherlock Holmes, as usual, knew every detail of the circumstances before anyone else and so, by extension, did Dan Leno. It was with a heavy heart and a critical eye, respectively, that Leno and Holmes stood in the Cree house, looking down at the dead body of John Cree.

Elizabeth Cree was, fortunately, out of the house or she might have recognized the "woman" viewing her dead husband. Those who were not so personally familiar with Dan Leno, though, would not have found it strange to see a maid in the chambers of a proud woman like Elizabeth Cree. This was how, in fact, the two men were viewing the body at all. By order of Elizabeth, no one other than the physicians, the police and the staff were allowed in the house after the death of her husband, and the first two were only by necessity.

It was for this reason that Leno was found to be giving the greatest performance of his life, playing maid to Holmes's physician. Not that playing the role of distraught servant was particularly difficult, given the fact that he was staring at the body of his friend's husband. Holmes's part was even more appropriate, it seemed, as it gave him the means to examine the body and the room to his heart's content.

As soon as Holmes had heard the news from one of his many contacts, he had hurried into a physician's costume that he owned for just such occasions and taken a hansom cab straight to Leno's lodgings. The two men rushed over to the scene just in time to examine the body before it was taken away, slipping into the house as though they had always been there.

Now, Holmes was examining the corpse's fingernails with a magnifying glass and making small tutting noises at his findings. At one point Leno could have sworn that he saw Holmes run his finger along the body's hand and touch it to the tip of his tongue, but by the time he looked back, Holmes had finished his examination, waving a hand at the inspectors in the room and dusting off his trousers as he stood up. He signalled to Leno that he should wait for a moment before leaving the house so as not to arouse any suspicion.

Ten minutes later, the men were both outside again, far away from the crime scene and any prying eyes that may have been nearby.

Holmes turned into an alley and leaned against the cool stone of a nearby building, removing his hat from his head and rubbing his lower lip in thought.

'We are closer now, Mr Leno,' he said, 'than we have ever been.'

'Closer to what? I am sure I don't understand,' Leno said, following Holmes's lead and propping his small frame against the building.

'Closer to the murderer, of course.'

'Murderer? I thought the police and the real physician ruled that Cree died of a perfectly common ailment. And how do you know this, Mr Holmes? Surely you could not have solved the case so quickly.'

'The police are not the brightest lot. And they get paid to close cases quickly, not to solve them correctly. I have different priorities.'

'Are you saying the police neglect evidence?' Leno asked, taken aback.

'I am saying they do not always comprehend what is in front of them.' Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands together eagerly. 'We are so very close to the solution, I can almost taste it. This evening everything will be made clear.'

'You still plan to investigate the case, then? Even though your client is dead?

'My dear Leno,' Holmes beamed at the man. 'As you theatre folk say, "The show must go on".'

With that he replaced his hat on his head and took off down the street, Leno trailing at his heels.

That evening Leno found himself seated, once again, in a hansom cab next to Sherlock Holmes. Leno was not entirely certain where they were headed, as most of the ride was passed in silence, a surprisingly pleasant change from the normal bustle of the crowded streets of London.

After some time, though, Holmes addressed Leno quietly, almost conspiratorially. 'Mr Leno,' he said slowly. 'I am assuming that, as a theatrical man, you have heard the story of the Golem?'

'I am aware of it,' Leno replied. 'Though I do not know as much about it as it seems I should, given the current circumstances.'

Holmes looked pleased, long fingers toying with the curtain at the window beside him. 'Then allow me to educate you. The story of the Golem is an old Jewish folk story; it has been around for centuries, in one form or another. Legend has it that, in order to stop the persecution of the Jews of Prague, a rabbi created a creature made entirely of clay. He brought it to life by writing three symbols on its forehead, the Hebrew word for truth. The creature was animated to do its creator's bidding, killing those who would threaten the Jewish community. But as it grew, the Golem became destructive and evil, even turning on those it was created to protect.'

Holmes paused in his narrative and leaned closer to Leno, lowering his voice to a dramatic whisper. 'The Golem had to be destroyed. It had become a threat, rather than a tool. The rabbi who had created the monster was forced to confront it. With a shaking hand, he erased the first letter written on the creature's forehead, changing the word from "truth" to "death", effectively killing the Golem.'

Holmes had spoken clinically, almost scientifically, but Leno still felt a shiver run down his spine. The silence in the cab now seemed deafening rather than comfortable, and Leno let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

Holmes broke the tension with a wave of his hand. 'But, of course,' he said coolly, 'it is all just myths and legend. I was merely curious to see if you knew the origin of the Limehouse Killer's name.'

Seeming at this pronouncement, the cab drew to a stop and Holmes jumped gleefully out, leaving Leno to his stunned silence, until he remembered to pay the driver.

Once he had done so, he followed Holmes into the darkness, images of monsters running through his head.

He stumbled through the blackness, arms outstretched blindly, until a hand caught his wrist and a voice whispered, 'This way!'

As he was pulled around a corner and down a street, he was sure he could hear the distinctive sound of the Thames, but before he could comment his guide came to a stop.

'We have arrived,' Holmes whispered, voice hoarse with barely contained excitement. 'I should warn you, Mr Leno, things could get dangerous. But I do not expect that to trouble a man of your considerable talents. You are accustomed to the dramatic life, after all,' he chuckled.

Leno opened his mouth to respond, but Holmes, confident in his analysis of Leno, pulled him up a series of stone steps leading to an enormous door.

He could tell that they were approaching a large temple, if only because it looked similar to the ones being erected all over London, though he had never been inside one. 'A temple, Holmes?' he said quietly. 'What does this have to do with the case?'

Holmes flashed him a stern look that plainly told him to be patient and started to push open the huge wooden door. It swung open with a huge creak that echoed loudly in the empty building and once they had slipped inside, Holmes shut it quickly, as if worried that someone might come investigate the source of the noise.

He put a finger to his lips and tiptoed to a pile of candles that were lying on a sideboard in the entryway. He lit one and beckoned Leno to follow him as he ventured further into the building. Leno obeyed, and Holmes started to lead him down a series of passages that grew steeper and steeper; it was plain they were descending into the basement of the temple. Before long, the passageway levelled out and Leno could tell they were approaching their destination.

When they neared the end of the hallway, Leno could see that it terminated in a large room that was lit by candles. Holmes held up a hand to stop Leno. Someone was inside.

They tiptoed into the room, slowly and quietly, attempting to muffle any sound of footsteps they would make. The floor of the room was dirt, red and dry, which helped absorb the sound.

As they made their way into the cavernous room, Leno noticed a hulking figure hunched over what may have been an altar at the far end of the room, facing away from the men. Leno looked curious but Holmes shook his head and held up a finger, continuing to approach silently.

As they neared their quarry, the figure began to move, as if making to stand up. Holmes leaned against a pillar, watching the figure closely. 'You, my crafty friend, are not going anywhere,' he called, drawing its attention.

When the figure turned, Leno blinked in surprise. Holmes, that devil, had clearly known more than he had let on! The figure was, in fact, a large man covered in thick, red clay, a proper Golem costume complete with Hebrew symbols on the forehead.

As both men stared, the clay-covered man started lumbering towards them at a swift run, making as if to attack them.

'Come on, Leno!' Holmes yelled, darting out of the Golem's path. 'This is your murderer! We need to stop him.'

Holmes was nimble and fast, flitting in and out of the Golem's range, distracting and confusing him. Once, though, he strayed too close, and his pursuer took the opportunity to grab him around the neck. Holmes kicked out his feet and scrabbled at the thick arms around his throat, fingers scraping the surface of the clay.

While the other two men were thus occupied, Leno wasted no time in searching for some sort of weapon he could use to stop the Golem. Unfortunately for Leno, this production was not staged and there were no props conveniently laid out for him. As Holmes's trashing grew weaker, though, Leno made a decision. He ran over to the fighting figures, stood on tiptoe, and hit the massive man as hard as he could in what he perceived to be the temple.

His fist connected much more solidly than he expected with the soft clay and he reeled back from the momentum of his blow. For a moment, their attacker looked confused and then, much to Leno's surprise, he fell to the floor, momentarily subdued by the punch.

After the initial surprise, Leno helped Holmes extricate himself from the huge pile of limbs and torso. When Holmes was upright, he rubbed his neck and winced playfully. 'Well done, Leno,' he croaked. 'I knew your assistance would be invaluable.' He examined the clay under his fingernails with particular interest.

'Holmes!' Leno cried despairingly, ignoring the other man's fleeting praise. 'None of this makes sense! How did you know the killer would be here? Why is he dressed like a Golem? And what does any of this have to do with Elizabeth?'

'It was all rather simple, Leno,' Holmes said, voice growing stronger with the excitement of his words. 'Though I am sorry to say that you, as a friend of Elizabeth Cree, will not be very pleased by my deductions.' He looked himself momentarily displeased but carried on with his explanation. 'Elizabeth is behind all of this: the Golem, the murders... everything. It all started many years ago with the death of her mother. That was all over the papers, you remember. Her mother, as John Cree mentioned, was a very religious woman, strict and cruel, and Elizabeth resented her for it, eventually killing her. After that murder, she began colluding with people of the Jewish faith to spite her mother's memory.

One man in particular, a certain Solomon Weil, became a fast friend of Elizabeth's. He obviously introduced her to the legend of the Golem, putting ideas in her head. According to the papers, Elizabeth Cree is a passionate woman, _driven_, some might say. Does it not seem coincidental that every person who stood in the way of her building a future for herself is now dead? It is clear that she began working with this man,' he gestured to the prone Golem on the floor '-a friend? Perhaps a lover?- to get rid of the people who were holding her back. His costume is just that- a disguise in order to veil his, as well as Elizabeth's, identity.

Solomon Weil was an unfortunate casualty, in the wrong place at the wrong time. He knew too much about Elizabeth's doings and needed to be eliminated. He tried to warn the world about the identity of his murderer; it was not just a coincidence that the book he was reading was opened to a page about the Golem.

John Cree was another such victim. He grew suspicious of his wife, thinking she was having an affair. She could not risk him discovering her real secret, though, so she murdered her own husband much as she murdered the others who she viewed as a threat.

What really tipped me off, though, were the bodies at the crime scenes. I have managed to examine every body in this investigation, and the results were all quite conclusive: clay under every victim's fingernails, as if each had tried to ward off his attacker much as I was just forced to do.

The clay is a very specific type. You may have noticed me tasting it at the Cree house earlier. Different parts of London have very distinctive soils. The colour of the clay and the characteristic taste of iron led me to believe that the murderer could be found in this particular area of London, near the Thames. There is only one synagogue which fits that description.'

Leno looked shocked at Holmes's pronouncement, not only for the reason that he had just discovered his old friend was a murderer, but also for the specifics of the remarkable deduction. After a moment, Leno found his voice again. 'How did you know to look at a synagogue?'

'This is all on the aid of the dramatic,' Holmes shrugged. 'Surely you understand all about that? Elizabeth Cree was born to be an actress. This entire scheme was part of her way of proving it to herself. Of course, when she is caught for the murder of her husband, she will never admit any of this information. Pretending to bring a monster to life? She would look a madwoman rather than like the brilliant schemer she intended to be. No, the world will never be aware of what we have discovered.'

Holmes shook his head but then grinned earnestly, his sharp eyes flashing with excitement. 'And now, Leno, it is time for the final reveal! The curtain is about to close on our little production. We have solved the case, but it is time to unmask our villain.'

Leno watched as Holmes reached out a milky white arm toward the Golem, the flickering candlelight turning him into a pale spectre. He placed a hand on the still forehead of the figure and made as if to pull off the man's mask. His face fell slightly when he was met with resistance. Try as he might, he could not remove the costume. He would not be discouraged, though, and with one final heave he tugged at the clay, his hand sliding across the man's moist forehead.

As it did so, his palm slipped over the Hebrew symbols, unintentionally erasing the first letter.

Almost immediately, the costume began to pulsate and bubble, as if the clay was being superheated. Holmes took a step back, confusion etched on his features, to watch the spectacle. Before his eyes, the clay began to melt off the figure, twisting and writhing.

But where Holmes expected to see a body, there was none. The figure kept melting away until all that was left was a bubbling mass of inanimate clay. Holmes narrowed his eyes and looked around the room as if expecting to see something that would explain the anomaly. His eyes darted around the chamber, raking over every crevice in the walls, but still he could find nothing.

He looked at Leno, rare confusion and distress clearly evident in his face, and he was surprised when he was met with a grin.

Leno could explain the situation, of course, no more than the brilliant Holmes, but that did not matter to him. He had, for the first time in his life, witnessed something amazing outside of a theatre.

'It seems to be time, Holmes, for the curtain call,' Leno crowed, plainly excited by the drama of the spectacle he had seen. He waved a hand to an imaginary audience and drew up a set of imaginary skirts in an elaborate curtsey.

Holmes, eyes tracking rapidly over unseen facts and statistics, seemed as much caught up in the moment as Leno. Gradually, he seemed to grow content; a lazy smile spread across his face and he joined Leno in a slow, dramatic bow.


End file.
